I Provoked My Mature Boss Until He Lost Control

My name is Renata, I’m thirty-four years old, and I’ve been married for six years to a man who stopped looking at me at some point I can’t even remember. Since our son was born, his attention has been split between work and the sofa, and I became part of the furniture. I work as an assistant at a distribution company, and although no one would guess it from the way I dress, I know exactly what I have: a body that still turns heads when I set my mind to it.

My breasts have always been my best asset. Big, firm for their size, with nipples that show at the slightest draft. I hide them under blouses buttoned all the way to the neck, because I learned early on that showing them too much only brings trouble. My husband complains that they’re heavy, that they get in the way. I, on the other hand, know their power better than anyone.

It all started one afternoon over coffee with my friend Pamela, at the bar across from the office.

—Have you seen the new boss they sent us? —she said, stirring her sugar with a look of annoyance—. An older guy, all suited up.

—I saw him —I answered, pretending indifference—. Older? He must be about fifty. I thought he was interesting.

—Interesting —Pamela repeated, laughing—. He’s married, Renata. And they say he’s made of ice. No one’s even seen him smile once.

I took a sip of my coffee without taking my eyes off the window, where the glass building stood in view.

—I’ve always liked challenges —I said.

—You’re married, in case you forgot.

—My husband hasn’t touched me in a year. He asked for it.

Pamela shook her head, half amused and half scandalized, but I was no longer listening. A plan had already begun to take shape in my head. I wanted a raise, yes, I’d been asking for months without success. But beneath that there was something simpler and more urgent: I wanted to feel desired again.

The man’s name was Marcelo. In his fifties, silver hair slicked back, short trimmed beard, broad shoulders that the suit could never quite conceal. He had a habit of looking you in the eyes when he spoke, as if he were measuring you. Serious, yes. But seriousness had never scared me. Quite the opposite.

***

I started the next day. In the bathroom, before going into his office with the weekly report, I undid one extra button. Just one. Enough so that, when I leaned over his desk to leave the pages, the neckline opened just enough to reveal the lace edge of my bra.

Marcelo looked up. It was a second, no more, but I noticed him go still, his eyes fixed where they shouldn’t have been.

—Thank you, Renata —he said, and cleared his throat before lowering his gaze to the papers.

—You’re welcome, boss —I answered, with the most innocent voice I could manage.

I left there with a tingling between my legs that I hadn’t felt in years.

The following days I raised the stakes slowly, measuring every gesture. A coffee that I “spilled” on his desk, and me cleaning it up with my back to him, my tight skirt emphasizing everything. A meeting where I crossed my legs a little more slowly than necessary and let the fabric ride just slightly up my thigh. Marcelo didn’t lose track of what he was saying, he was too professional for that, but his eyes drifted. And every time I caught him, I got a little wetter.

The tension turned into a silent game between the two of us. He pretended not to look; I pretended not to provoke. He started calling me into “private meetings” to review reports anyone else would have handled by email. He adjusted his jacket whenever I got up to leave. And I, at my desk, counted the minutes until I could go back in.

A week later I took things further. I walked into his office carrying a heavy box of files, let it “slip” near his desk, and bent down slowly to pick it up. My blouse opened more than it should have, my breasts on the verge of spilling out of the fabric.

—Renata, be careful —he said, his voice tight, hoarse.

I straightened up slowly and let my arm brush his as I passed.

—Sorry, boss —I murmured, almost pressed against his ear.

I heard him swallow. That night, at home, while my husband snored beside me, I touched myself thinking about the way he had looked at me.

***

Friday came. The office emptied early on Fridays, and by six in the evening there was no one left on the floor. I knew that. So I waited.

I went in with the final report, my blouse opened more than I had ever dared, my black bra showing fully. I leaned over his desk and set the pages in front of him without saying a word.

Marcelo got to his feet in a flash. The chair rolled backward and hit the wall. He grabbed my arm, not with brutal force, but with decision, and made me step back until my spine met the cold glass of the window.

—You’ve been doing this for weeks —he said, his voice low and charged—. You think I don’t notice. You think I’m stupid.

—I don’t know what you’re talking about, boss —I replied, though my heart was pounding in my throat.

—You know perfectly well —his jaw clenched—. A married woman coming into my office to throw herself at me every day. What is it you actually want?

I looked him in the eyes and finally let half the truth out.

—I want a raise.

Marcelo let out a dry laugh, without a shred of humor. His hand came up and held my chin, forcing me to look at him.

—I saw your file, Renata. Married, with a son. And here you are, with your blouse open in my face. —He lowered his voice until it became a whisper—. Fine. I’ll give you the raise. But you’re going to earn it. And when I’m done with you, you won’t be able to look your husband in the eye.

Something inside me lit up. I had done it. But I hadn’t expected the force with which he was going to take my own game and turn it back on me.

With one yank, he finished opening my blouse. The remaining buttons popped. He freed my breasts from the bra with his big hands and looked at them for a moment, like someone discovering something he’d been searching for a long time.

—So this is what you were hiding —he said, more to himself than to me.

At first he kneaded them slowly, then with real hunger, playing with my nipples until he pulled out a moan I couldn’t hold back. I, who had planned every move for weeks, was suddenly the one losing control.

—The raise —I insisted, in one last attempt to keep the reins—. With one condition.

—You’re not in a position to set conditions —he replied, and at last his smile appeared, crooked and dangerous—. But yes, you’ll get your raise. And you’re going to come looking for it every Friday.

***

He pulled my skirt and panties down in one motion. His knee parted my legs and his fingers found how soaked I was. I moaned against his shoulder, not recognizing the voice coming out of my own throat.

—Look at yourself —he murmured, moving his hand with a rhythm that made my knees tremble—. Your husband doesn’t touch you like this, does he?

I couldn’t answer. I didn’t want to answer. I came against his hand sooner than I would ever admit, biting my lip so I wouldn’t scream in an office that, even empty, was still an office.

Marcelo gave me no respite. He turned me around and bent me over the desk, over the very papers I’d brought as an excuse. I felt his body press against mine, his breath on the nape of my neck.

—This is what you wanted from day one —he said in my ear—. Admit it.

—Yes —I confessed, and the word came out broken.

What came after erased any plan, any calculation, any idea that I was the one in control of the situation. He took me by the hair with one hand and by the hip with the other, and made me his on that desk with an intensity I hadn’t felt in years of lukewarm marriage. Each thrust pulled a sound from me I hadn’t even known I was keeping inside.

—You’re coming every Friday —he repeated through clenched teeth—. And you’re going to learn who’s in charge here.

I came two more times, one on top of the other, until the papers were a mess and my legs had turned to jelly. When he finished, he did it with a deep growl, holding me against the desk as if afraid I might collapse.

We stayed like that for a few seconds, both of us out of breath. Then he pulled away, straightened his suit with a calm that gave me chills, and became the same ice-cold man as always.

—Fix yourself up before you leave —he said, turning his back to me—. And lock up when you go.

***

I got home with my blouse impossible to button, my makeup smeared, and the marks from his fingers still warm on my skin. Luckily, my husband had taken our son to dinner at his mother’s. I didn’t have to explain anything, or make anything up, or look him in the eyes like Marcelo had promised. I got into the shower and let the water wash the rest away.

On Monday morning, before I’d even turned on my computer, I got the email from Human Resources confirming the raise. And beneath it, an internal message from Marcelo, concise, professional, impeccable:

—Good work, Renata.

Three words. Anyone reading them over my shoulder would have seen a manager congratulating an efficient employee. Only the two of us knew what they really meant.

Since then, every Friday afternoon, when the office empties out, I stay behind. I go into his office with any excuse at all, a report, a signature, a question that doesn’t exist, and I let the most serious man in the company lose his composure with me. I come harder than I ever did in my own bed.

And my husband still believes the raise came from my good performance. He’s not entirely wrong, I think sometimes, holding back a smile. It came from good performance. Just not exactly in the way he imagines.